


Chloroform

by Triangulum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:49:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum/pseuds/Triangulum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever is summoning these demons needs to be found. No one has died yet, but old Mrs. Casper is throwing her pug a funeral on Thursday. They don’t know how the demons are being summoned either, or why, and it’s driving Stiles crazy. He’s been at it for three hours and almost has an answer, but he’s hit a major road block. A roadblock that needs some sketchy shit to get around. Luckily, Stiles knows the master of sketchy shit.</p><p>OR</p><p>The one where I combined the prompts 'That is the tenth demon summoning this week, what the shit?' and 'What do you need chloroform for at two a.m.?' with magical Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chloroform

“That is the tenth demon summoning this week, what the shit?” Stiles says, wiping blood and demon guts off his hands.

The pack is standing in the school parking lot, passing around the bag of wet wipes Derek has started keeping in his SUV for situations like this. Stiles gives his so much shit for that, but is always happy to use them.

“It could be a cult,” Kira says worriedly.

“Probably a bunch of dumbass teenagers messing with things way outside their pay grades,” Stiles says. He spits out what he’s pretty sure is demon intestine and almost heaves.

“Need I remind you that _you’re_ a bunch of dumbass teenagers messing with things way outside of your pay grades?” Peter drawls.

“Hey, I’m 18!” Stiles squawks.

“Which is a teen,” Peter says.

“And this hasn’t been outside of our pay grade since _someone_ went on a killing spree,” Stiles says.

Peter just shrugs. Asshole.

Scott sends them all home with congratulations on stopping the demon and with strict orders to get some sleep, orders Stiles wishes he could follow. Instead, he’s at his desk, a half-empty bottle of Mountain Dew precariously close to the edge, with a dozen web pages and three spell books open.

Whoever is summoning these demons needs to be found. No one has died yet, but old Mrs. Casper is throwing her pug a funeral on Thursday. They don’t know how the demons are being summoned either, or why, and it’s driving Stiles crazy. He’s been at it for three hours and almost has an answer, but he’s hit a major road block. A roadblock that needs some sketchy shit to get around. Luckily, Stiles knows the master of sketchy shit.

 _”Stiles,”_ the voice on the other end of the phone answers. His voice is heavy with sleep. Oops.

“I need chloroform, do you have chloroform?” Stiles asks.

There’s a pause, then _”What do you need chloroform for at two a.m.?”_

“It’s for a spell.”

 _”I don’t know of any practitioners that would write chloroform into their spell work,”_ Peter says.

“I don’t have an ingredient that I need and it’s close enough,” Stiles says.

 _”There’s no such thing as ‘close enough’ in magic, Stiles,”_ Peter says, irritation seeping into his voice. There’s a rustling down the line, like Peter is shifting in bed and wow, doesn’t that give Stiles images? _”Look, I will take you to a shop tomorrow that I guarantee will have whatever you’re looking for if you stop and sleep for the next six hours.”_

“Peter, we need to find whoever is summoning the demons!” Stiles says. “They – “

 _”Will be too exhausted from the summoning to try again tonight,”_ Peter interrupts. _”They need rest, as do I. As do you. Go to sleep, Stiles.”_ And he hangs up.

Stiles glances at the phone in his hand before sighing. As much as he hates to admit it, Peter has a point. Plus, Stiles has already learned from the chicken incident that he really shouldn’t do magic when he’s drowsy.

His last thought before he slips into unconsciousness is that Peter never said if he has chloroform or not.

-

Stiles isn’t sure why he wakes up the next morning. Maybe he left the window open? Or –

“Well, this is certainly interesting,” Peter says.

Stiles jerks up in bed, arms windmilling to keep himself from falling off, and whirls around to see Peter at his desk, scrolling through all of his research from the night before.

“What are you doing?” Stiles demands.

“You never mentioned that the spell is one you created yourself,” Peter says, ignoring Stiles’ question.

“You didn’t ask,” Stiles says. “Did you break in?”

“Yes,” Peter says. “You need to hide your spare key better and close up your wards.”

“My wards as a closed as Trump’s mind,” Stiles says indignantly. “They wouldn’t have let you in if you meant me or my dad any harm.”

“Really?” Peter says, looking intrigued. “That’s interesting.”

“Yeah, yeah it’s great,” Stiles grumbles. “Why are you here?”

“I told you I would take you if you slept,” Peter says.

“That doesn’t mean break into my house,” Stiles grumbles. “It’s eight a.m.!”

“We have a bit of a drive,” Peter says. “Get dressed.”

Stiles makes Peter wait downstairs while he showers and gets dressed, though he wouldn’t be shocked if Peter takes that time to go through his room. Whatever, everything that’s important is locked up anyway.

Once they’ve been driving for fifteen minutes and Stiles has some coffee in him, he realizes he’s never been in Peter’s car before. He never even knew that Peter _has_ a car before this. Sure, he knew in the back of his mind that he has to get around somehow, but he never really thought about it. The elegant black Mercedes fits Peter perfectly.

They stop a half hour from San Francisco for gas and so Stiles can use the bathroom. Stiles thinks about offering to pay for gas, but Peter is the one that woke him up at eight a.m., so fuck him. He does buy a bottle of the pretentious sparkling water Peter is always drinking, though. Peter thanks him and Stiles thinks that maybe he’s the only person Peter ever thanks for anything.

They pull into the parking lot of a little shop in the tenderloin district a little after ten a.m. Stiles has woke up enough to be chatty and has been asking about where they’re going for the last ten minutes. Peter is content to give him half answers and sarcasm until they park.

“I need you to listen now,” Peter says, turning intently to stare at Stiles. “The woman who owns this shop and I are on friendly terms, but she is…hm, how to put this. When she gets in a state, she makes me at my worst look positively cuddly.”

“Okay…” Stiles says slowly.

“My point is, it would be wise to not say something that would anger her,” Peter says.

“Are you telling me or you? Because I’m not the one that just called her psychotic,” Stiles says.

Peter swats at Stiles’ hand where it’s fiddling with the seat warmer.

“Just keep your wits about you and be careful what your sharp tongue says,” Peter says.

“You wish you knew about my tongue,” Stiles mutters sarcastically, then stills when he realizes what he said.

Peter, for his part, just rolls his eyes and says, “My dear boy, I can out-tongue you any day of the week.” He gets out of the car, leaving Stiles scrambling to follow, more confused than ever.

The shop windows are dark, so dark that if Stiles hadn’t been directed to it by Peter, he’d have walked right by it and assumed it was vacant. Instead, Peter walks in first, the door setting off a loud, shrieking bell when it’s opened. Stiles wants to cower behind Peter because honestly, this place is giving him the creeps. It’s what he expected a shop in Knockturn Alley to look like. There are piles of books everywhere, almost no light, and something scuttling in the corner under a large dresser. On the left is a huge wall covered with overflowing planters, some of which contained some serious poisons, at least that Stiles can see.

“I heard you died,” a woman’s voice calls.

Stiles looks up and sees a woman walking down a spiral staircase in the back corner of the shop that’s nearly covered in tapestries. He’d expected her to be old and wizened or something, but she looks maybe 35, with dirty blonde hair back in a braid and wisps around her face. She’s wearing a turquoise flowing shirt, chunky silver jewelry, and simple black leggings, no shoes. Stiles is really confused. For as completely normal as she looks, everything about her radiates power.

“I did die,” Peter answers. “It didn’t suit me well.”

The woman snorts and walks closer, weaving her way through the piles of books.

“And you didn’t come to visit me?” she says. “No manners at all these days.”

Stiles waits to see what Peter does, unsure if this woman is legitimately offended or not. Then, she smirks and Peter’s shoulders drop a little in relief. Stiles’ heart stops trying to beat out of his chest as the woman actually smiles at Peter’s relief.

“Thank you for that, Angela,” Peter says, huffing out a breath.

“Wow, I think that’s the most ruffled I’ve ever seen you,” Stiles says, finding his voice now that he isn’t worried about being incinerated.

“It had better be,” the woman, Angela, says. “Years of silence after your ‘death’. Well that’s just rude, isn’t it?”

“Speaking of bad manners, this is Stiles,” Peter says. “Stiles, this is Angela. She’s the strongest witch you’ll find on the west coast.”

“Charmed,” she says and puts out her hand. Stiles reaches forward to take it, but Peter jerks in his periphery. Before he can pull his hand back, Angela snatches it and for two seconds, Stiles has the horrible feeling like he’s falling before he’s yanked away, his hand pulled from Angela’s grasp. Stiles is breathing heavily, clutching to Peter’s arm that’s wrapped around him, angling him away from the witch, who for her part doesn’t look sorry in the least. Peter bares his fangs at her and she rolls her eyes. “Calm down, growly, I didn’t take anything from him, just a little taste. You brought me a spark, hm? Here I assumed you just found a mundane magic user and want to get in his pants.”

“You know me better than that,” Peter says, his voice completely polite, but his arm is still steel around Stiles.

“You can let him go, he isn’t in any danger,” Angela says, waving a hand at Peter and Stiles. “I just wanted to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Most people ask,” Stiles says breathily.

“And which of us here are most people?” Angela asks. Well, Stiles doesn’t have an argument for that. “What are you boys looking for?”

“Stiles is working a spell to help us track whoever is summoning demons in Beacon Hills,” Peter says. “And I convinced him he can’t use chloroform in place of real ingredients.”

“Chloroform,” Angela says deadpan, staring at Stiles.

“The magical elements almost break down the same!” Stiles says defensively.

“There is no ‘almost’ in magic, kiddo,” Angela says. “What do you need?”

“I need a lamia tongue and a cyclops eye,” Stiles says.

Angela’s eyebrows climb and she glances at Peter. “What, my dear, did you find with this one here?” Angela asks, eyeing Stiles in a way that made him feel a bit like a turkey on a rotisserie.

“Do you have them?” Peter asks, drawing Angela’s attention to him.

“Yes, I do,” Angela says, reluctantly turning to Peter. “You’re lucky that I do, they’re very rare.”

“I’m not worried about price.”

“I’m worried about price,” Stiles pipes in, but Peter just shushes him.

“Sure thing,” she says. “I’ll be right back, I keep them in the vault. Feel free to look around. Don’t step on any rats, it’s just Matilda and Ruffles.”

Stiles pokes around, careful not to touch anything accidentally. He stops a few times to admire things like a beautiful chest full of more types of wolfsbane than he’s ever heard of, a claw from what he thinks might have been a real griffon, and a leather-bound book bigger than anything he’s ever seen. The book doesn’t glow exactly, but there’s a strange light around it that makes it stand out to Stiles and he’s so, so curious. There are no words on the cover, just runes in a language Stiles has come across in his research but can’t seem to find a full text of anywhere. Peter’s behind him the whole time, a dark, wolfy shadow.

“I wondered if you’d end up by this book,” Angela says from behind them. Peter doesn’t jump, but Stiles does, almost knocking over a tower of old candles.

“Why?” Stiles asks once he’s regained his balance.

“It was written by the first known spark,” Angela says. “He was extremely strong, but extremely paranoid. Only another spark would be able to fully access its potential.”

“Then how do you even have it?” Stiles asks.

“I said _fully_ access it,” Angela says. “There is plenty that is fine for witches like me, but the majority of it is unreadable to me.”

“It sounds valuable,” Peter says, eyes narrow. “Which begs the question, why is it out here mixed with spell books made by nobodies?”

“I was curious,” Angela said mildly.

“Curious who would find it,” Stiles says. “Curious who’s a spark. Why, so you can drain them? I’ve had enough of being a supernatural sacrifice thanks, I’ll stick with chloroform. Come on, Peter.”

“I don’t want to drain you! Wow, Beacon Hills makes people dramatic,” Angela says. “I am an extremely powerful witch, Stiles. I’ve been alive longer than white people have been on this continent.” And wow, minute to process that, please. “But sparks can be much, much more than that. Do you think that I might want to identify who one is and see if they might be a threat to me? I’m strong, but one wrong look from a strong enough spark and I’m out of here so fucking fast you’d think I’m Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride.”

Stiles glances at Peter, who’s looking at her with a blank face but with no open hostility. He takes the bag she hands him with the tongue and eye inside. She then takes the book from the cluttered table and holds it out to Stiles.

“What, you want me to touch it?” he asks.

“I want you to take it,” she says.

“Why?”

“I’ve learned all I can from it, but it’ll show you a lot more,” Angela says. “And honestly? I have a feeling you’re going to end up very strong. And I’d rather be on the friendly side of that power if you catch my drift.”

Peter nods minutely, and Stiles takes the book, half expecting it to shock him or something, but it doesn’t. It’s just a heavy book, though it no longer is calling to Stiles now that he’s holding it.

“Always a pleasure,” Peter says as they walk out the door.

“Ditto,” Angela calls. “Don’t be strangers.”

“It feels ten degrees warmer out here,” Stiles says as soon as the door closes behind them.

“She has that effect on people,” Peter says. “And that was positively kind.”

“Great,” Stiles says.

They store the book and their purchases in the trunk before driving off to get a bit of lunch before heading back. They’re seated at the restaurant for a full five minutes before Peter says casually, “You didn’t tell me you’re a spark.”

“You didn’t tell me you know a witch older than Queen Isabella,” Stiles counters.

"Hmm," Peter says, pausing conversation while the cheerful waiter comes over to greet them. "Prawn fried rice for me, please. Five star."

"I'll have the cashew nut chicken, three stars. Thanks," Stiles says. The waiter thanks them and takes off. Peter eyes the other man's back for a few moments before restarting their conversation.

"Knowledge can be dangerous in our lives," Peter says.

"Sharing knowledge tends to keep us from getting killed, if you haven't noticed," Stiles says. "Though I feel like you have, since you step in with some crucial bit of information in the eleventh hour all the time." Peter, the smarmy bastard, just smirks. "Fine," Stiles says. "Then why did you decide to introduce me?"

Peter's grin doesn't slip exactly, but it does change to something more thoughtful. For a moment, Stiles thinks he won't answer. 

"Because," Peter says slowly, as if he's still weighing his options. "Part of it is you're more useful like this. It was obvious that you're more than averagely magical, and knowing how much more can be helpful."

"Oh," Stiles says, trying not to let his disappointment show. For one minute, one stupid minute, he'd thought that maybe Peter was interested in more than himself. And ain't that stupid. 

"But," Peter says, and it sounds like he's regretting this as he speaks. "I've told you, I like you, Stiles. The human and wolf sides are both...interested in you. It's in our best interest to keep you safe and happy."

Stiles could almost kiss the waiter for choosing that moment to bring over their food. Stiles thanks him and busies himself with his plate, the whole while Peter stares at him across the table and the waiter sets down his own dish. Once the waiter has left again, Stiles regains his courage. 

"And why is that?" Stiles asks, forcing himself to look into Peter's suddenly too blue eyes. 

"You're a smart boy, Stiles," Peter says. "You'll figure it out."

That's the last time the topic is brought up at lunch. They chat about how they didn't like Derek's date last weekend, though she doesn't seem homicidal so they guess that's a plus. They talk about the extremely awkward Allison-Isaac-Scott-Kira fiasco that the whole pack is caught in the middle of. Peter is in favor of locking them all in a room with mountain ash at the doors to force them to hash it out, but Stiles knows that wouldn't work, if only because Allison can out-stubborn them all.

The drive home is mostly silent as Stiles uses it to start reading his new book. Peter doesn't seem to mind, just asks questions occasionally about what he's reading. He finds that part about sparks being able to feed off other magical beings much more interesting than Stiles does.

"This is interesting," Stiles says, pointing to a paragraph in the middle of the page. "This guy says that sparks and werewolves are kind of tied together. Like a spark is perfectly fine being alone, but a lot of the time will seek out supernatural companions, usually werewolf packs. I wonder how that works into the entanglement theory Lydia is working on. What?"

Peter's still driving but glancing over between his face and the book, a strange look on his face.

"Stiles, there's nothing on that page," Peter says.

"What? Dude, it's right under my finger," Stiles says, pointing to the words that are definitely there.

"I believe you," Peter says. "But I'm telling you that I can't see anything."

"Huh...I guess this is what Angela meant by only sparks will really get to use it," Stiles says.

Peter looks...hungry. Hungry for the knowledge that only Stiles can give him. His stomach plummets. Peter must smell the change in his mood and tilts his head curiously.

"Is this...did you just want the book? Is that the only reason you brought me out here?" Stiles asks, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. This is Peter! He isn't supposed to be shocked by selfishness, it's just...Peter isn't like that with him, okay? Peter brings him coffee to long research nights and is the first to offer to take his pain after fights, and damn it, Peter is his friend, okay?

"What?" Peter says, looking genuinely shocked. "No. I didn't even know she had that until we got there. You heard her, she hadn't heard from me since before the fire."

"Right, yeah," Stiles says, shaking his head. "Yeah, sorry, I didn't...yeah."

Peter reaches over and rests his hand on Stiles' knee, stilling his bouncing leg.

"Stiles," Peter says calmly. "We both know what I am and that I'm very interested in learning what's in that book. But hopefully you'll believe me when I say I'm interested in you more."

When Stiles doesn't say anything, Peter lightly squeezes his knee, then goes to move his hand, but Stiles stops him, covering the hand with his own.

"Okay," Stiles says, voice hoarse as he glance at Peter. "Yeah, okay."

"Good," Peter says. "Go back to reading, I'll let you know when we're close."

Peter doesn't leave when he drops Stiles off. Actually, they both get in Stiles' jeep and drive out to a clearing in the preserve where Stiles sets up his locating spell. He has to admit, as much as they stink, it's nice to have the cyclops eye and lamia tongue as opposed to using chloroform. Peter stays at his back while he draws the circle and casts his spell, then he calls Derek and Scott to relay the information. Stiles is wiped and flops back on the forest floor, letting Peter pick up the clearing. 

"You and Kira were both right," Peter says, peering down at Stiles. "It was a cult of stupid teenagers thinking they could bargain for better grades or looks or something, I don't know, I stopped listening once Scott said they were getting a slap on the wrist."

Stiles snorts and lets Peter pull him to his feet. 

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Stiles says, falling into step next to Peter. "Bright side, no more demons for a while."

"We can only hope," Peter says. He takes the big duffel bag of supplies from Stiles and hauls it back to the jeep. "Dinner?"

Stiles doesn't let Peter know that the book was a little more specific and mentioned that sparks usually end up tied to one werewolf more than the rest. He wonders if he knows anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [ tumblr ](http://www.hotpinklizard.tumblr.com) or my [ main blog](http://www.femmmefatalist.tumblr.com).


End file.
